


your pillow feels so soft now (but still you must advance)

by firebrands



Series: ironbat boarding school au [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Christmas, Getting to Know Each Other, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, M/M, POV Bruce Wayne, Pre-Canon, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, Young Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands
Summary: When Bruce is 13, he decides to go to boarding school. It's an opportunity for him to learn about other people, and how to interact with them.Bruce has the misfortune of meeting Tony Stark upon his arrival in Roxbury. Bruce is moving into his room, and Tony opens the door of his room to watch. He looks a bit younger than Bruce, hair wild and eyes bright. Bruce has never seen a boy like him before—handsome and confident.Bruce doesn’t like it.IMPORTANT: This fic has them meeting at 14, then progresses slowly until they’re 17. Includes underage drinking and kissing.This is set before Bruce becomes Batman and Tony becomes Iron Man and I have no explanation as to how or why they just DOCanonically, Bruce is 17 when he finishes school and goes around the world to train, so we're sticking with that
Relationships: Tony Stark/Bruce Wayne
Series: ironbat boarding school au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753441
Comments: 27
Kudos: 122





	your pillow feels so soft now (but still you must advance)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starksexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starksexual/gifts).



> For cia / talktonytome!!! thank you for enabling my ironbat obsession
> 
> IN THE COURSE OF MY RESEARCH I DISCOVERED THAT BRUCE IS CANONICALLY 7 YEARS OLDER THAN TONY  
> BUT WE DON’T CARE FOR THAT KIND OF INFORMATION IN THIS HOUSE
> 
> also, i don't know what fandom to lodge this under !??!?! ANYWAY
> 
> title from "the kids don't stand a chance" by vampire weekend!
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

Bruce has the misfortune of meeting Tony Stark upon his arrival in Roxbury. Bruce is moving into his room, and Tony opens the door of his room to watch. He looks a bit younger than Bruce, hair wild and eyes bright. Bruce has never seen a boy like him before—handsome and confident.

Bruce doesn’t like it.

“I agree that it would be beneficial to you to be educated among peers of your—or close to your caliber,” Alfred intoned, as Bruce browsed through brochures of private boarding schools.

“Not that your tutelage has been in any way inadequate,” Bruce said. “But I think I need to learn how to interact with these… people.”

There was a small smile on Alfred’s lips, and he nodded.

The same knowing smile is on Alfred’s lips now as he places the last of Bruce’s bags in his room.

Bruce takes a deep breath before turning to face the boy who inhabits the room across his. “I’m Bruce Wayne,” he says, trying to smile.

Tony reaches out and shakes Bruce’s hand.

“This is Alfred,” Bruce says.

“Good morning, Mr. Stark.”

Tony laughs. “Are all butlers like, required to be British?”

Bruce almost asks, _oh, you have one too?_ Because it’s a relief to know that he shares that with someone. But it strikes him as gauche to ask. His mother would not have approved.

So instead, Bruce stares at Tony for a moment, then looks to Alfred helplessly.

“Well, I shall be off, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, disregarding Bruce’s silent plea. “Don’t forget to write.”

“I shan’t,” Bruce says, frowning. “Of course not.”

Alfred squeezes Bruce’s shoulder briefly, then walks out of Bruce’s room and down the hall.

Bruce purses his lips.

“So where are you from?” Tony asks, walking towards Bruce’s room. Bruce has to fight back the urge to block his entrance, instead standing stiffly in the doorway.

Tony slips past him easily and begins to walk around Bruce’s room, bare save for the three bags he’s brought. The boarding school didn’t allow for extravagance, and all Bruce thought to bring were clothes and some of his favorite fountain pens. Alfred had insisted on packing beddings (and he was right to do so; the sheets looked itchy).

“Gotham,” Bruce answers, watching Tony warily as he sits down on Bruce’s bed. Bruce sits on the chair by the desk.

“Never been,” Tony says, inspecting his nails. “Nice there?”

“Nice enough,” Bruce says, thinking of the country club and the large greenhouse his mother had commissioned, in the middle of the city. The yearning feeling that rises out of him takes him by surprise.

“Well,” Bruce says, casting his gaze around the room helplessly. “Where are you from?”

“New York,” Tony says. “My dad’s Howard Stark.”

Bruce has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at how gauche Tony sounds. Of course. Now it all makes sense: Tony’s ostentatious watch, the polo, the way he just reeks wealth. How nouveau riche.

“Ah,” Bruce says, because he’s met people like Tony before. “Stark Industries, right?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, excitement causing him to lean forward towards Bruce. “He builds the coolest stuff.”

“And you, too,” Bruce says, remembering a Popular Mechanics magazine that his father’s secretary had laid out on his father’s desk. He remembers now, a much younger Tony Stark, holding up some kind of circuitry. Bruce looks at Tony’s hands, notices how he has some fingers bandaged up. Inexplicably, Bruce wants to reach out and inspect them closely. Wants to hold Tony’s hand.

Bruce’s words have the opposite effect on Tony, who shrinks back a little. “Yeah, I guess.”

Bruce furrows his brow. “Are you building anything now?”

“Yeah!” Tony says, jumping up. “Wanna see?”

“Sure,” Bruce says. “But I’d like to unpack first.”

Tony tuts. “Your bags will unpack themselves. Come on!”

He takes Bruce’s hand in his and Bruce tries not to flinch at the contact. He lets Tony drag him to his room and Bruce stops at the door.

“A bit of a mess, sorry,” Tony says, not sounding apologetic at the least. Bruce takes everything in: the computers, the tangles of wiring, the explosion of clothes on Tony’s bed.

“I thought we were only allowed to move in today,” Bruce says.

“Yeah but who cares about rules,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “I came in last week.”

“Why?” Bruce asks—it explodes out of him, really. He can’t fathom why anyone would choose to move out of their homes into such a solitary space.

Tony shrugs, and Bruce can already tell from how Tony avoids his eyes, that there’s more to it. It sparks something in him, a deep curiosity.

“So I’ve been thinking of how to build a robot,” Tony says, holding up a circuit board and some sketches.

The math makes Bruce’s vision swim as he takes it in.

“I’m still figuring out the code,” Tony adds, more to himself than to Bruce. “Do you like robots?”

“Not really,” Bruce says. “But I want to know more.” He’s surprised by how much he means it. It’s interesting, and he can’t place if he means it because he wants to spend more time with Tony or learn mechanical engineering from a fourteen year old.

* * *

Bruce wakes up with a start. Someone’s knocking on his door, soft, urgent raps, belying the fear of getting caught as well as the need to be heard.

Bruce rubs his eyes as he cracks open the door, and yelps as it’s pushed open. Tony claps his hand over Bruce’s mouth.

“Shh,” Tony whispers, shutting the door behind him. “Just me.”

“What are you doing?” Bruce tries to say, but it’s muffled by Tony’s palm.

Bruce frowns and sticks out his tongue.

“Ugh!” Tony squawks, wrenching his hand away. “Gross!”

“What are you doing here?” Bruce hisses.

“Look at the moon!” Tony says, oblivious to Bruce’s ire. His palms are pressed flat against Bruce’s desk as he leans forward, face pressed against Bruce’s window.

The sight makes the confusion melt away into fondness. It’s horrifying.

Bruce huffs out a breath and checks the clock. “It’s two in the morning.”

“It’s a harvest moon,” Tony says, looking over his shoulder at Bruce. “It’s pretty.”

Bruce fights down the urge to say, _you’re prettier._

“Have you slept at all or have you been gazing at the moon all this time?” He asks, instead.

Tony laughs, and turns to look back outside. “Sleep is for the weak.”

Bruce walks toward him tentatively. “I resent that,” he murmurs. “I’m offended on behalf of the sleeping public.”

Tony shifts and makes space for Bruce, and Bruce hefts himself up to sit on the desk, leaning against the window as he looks at the moon.

“Okay. I guess it looks nice.” The moon is high in the sky, so bright that Bruce can see the campus in full. Tony tilts his head up some more, the roof of the building obscuring it a bit. He moves again, rests his hand on top of Bruce’s thigh.

It sends a shiver up Bruce’s spine. He looks down at Tony’s hand, warmth seeping through his pajamas.

Tony seems to notice, then looks down at his hand as well.

Their gazes meet.

Bruce can distinctly feel the moment his pace picks up speed.

Tony doesn’t look particularly handsome, not right now; there are circles under his eyes and his hair's a mess without the usual product.

Tony smiles, then seems to catch himself and bites his lip.

Bruce feels his face heat, then he looks away, down back at the quad.

“Hey,” he breathes out, and he can’t figure out why he’s whispering, but he knows too, that he’s ruining it by speaking. “I think someone’s sneaking out of the dorm.”

Tony’s gaze snaps to the window, and he presses himself up against it to follow Bruce’s line of sight.

* * *

A year later, it still makes no sense that they’re friends. Jacob Astor had greeted him when they’d seen each other in class—he’d formed his own group with Oliver Queen and Matthew Vanderbilt.

Bruce had met all of them before, back when they had parties in the Manor. He’d stayed in communication with Ollie, at the very least, who did ask him, “Bruce, why don’t you sit with us for lunch?” But Bruce had looked at Tony, seated at their usual table, and it wasn’t pity that made him say, “oh, I said I’d eat with Tony today.”

Tony, who had his own set of friends, too—sons of self-made men who spent their money sending their children to exclusive and private boarding schools like Roxbury, who tried to hide the stench of their beginnings by perfuming their offspring.

Tony isn’t any different, he’s pretentious and loud and gauche to a degree that makes Bruce laugh instead of sneer. “You’re ridiculous,” Bruce says, every time, and he’s explained why one shouldn’t have to talk about how much their father makes in polite company that Tony’s gotten a bit of a handle on himself.

In turn, Tony’s taught Bruce to “let loose,” which is a very thinly-veiled way of saying that Tony breaks all possible school rules and drags Bruce along with him.

When they’re called to the headmaster’s office, Bruce has his hands folded behind his back as he explains exactly why they were caught sneaking around the restricted books section. He very pointedly does not say “my father will hear about this,” which is a line Tony had used the first time they were caught (they had organized a betting game for the annual intramurals). Instead, Bruce says, “We apologize, sir. We shall not do it again.”

“But _why_ did you do it in the first place, Mr. Wayne?” the headmaster asks, sighing. Bruce can’t say that someone in class had dared Tony to steal a copy of _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_. Tony very subtly kicks Bruce’s foot, as if in reminder.

“I lost my pen,” Bruce says.

“In the restricted area of the library,” the headmaster states, rather than asks.

“Oh, no, sir. Not at all. But I know I did lose it in the library, and I had to check every corner for it.”

“At midnight?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“And Mr. Stark?”

Tony straightens up at the mention of his name. “I—two pairs of eyes are better than one?” He hazards. “And I couldn’t bear to see Bruce suffering any longer.”

Bruce glances at Tony, but keeps his face neutral. Tony, completely useless as he is in these situations, is visibility biting back a smile.

The headmaster sighs. “Take better care of your possessions, Mr. Wayne,” he says. “And Mr. Stark, take better care to advise your peers against breaking curfew, rather than encouraging it.”

“On my honor,” Tony says, laying it on thick. Bruce closes his eyes, unable to stop himself from rolling them.

“I hope I don’t need to summon you here again. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Thank you sir,” Bruce says, bowing slightly. “We’ll be better.”

Bruce just shuts the door to the headmaster’s office before Tony erupts into laughter. “ _We’ll be better_ ,” he repeats, clapping Bruce on the back. He knows Bruce meant, _better at not getting caught_.

* * *

“Brucie,” Tony sings, as he throws the door to Bruce’s room open. “I have a surprise for you!”

Bruce slowly lowers his head to rest on the psychology book he’s reading. “I’m busy,” he says, voice muffled by the pages.

“Well stop being busy and mind me,” Tony says imperiously. He rests his hip against Bruce’s desk, and Bruce shuts his eyes when he realizes that Tony’s—Tony’s general crotch area is right in front of him.

Tony takes Bruce’s chin in his hands and tilts Bruce’s head up. “Come _on_ Bruce,” he says, and the movement does something funny to Bruce’s insides that makes him keep his eyes shut. At the same time, he can’t help but feel that Tony knows this; Tony’s always so tactile, and Bruce is pretty sure he’s shown his hand on how he _isn’t_.

“What is it,” Bruce says, opening his eyes and looking at Tony.

Tony has a mischievous grin on his face, so Bruce knows it’s trouble. For the past two years, it’s always this face that preceded it. Bruce searches Tony’s face, then sees that he has his other hand behind his back.

“Reinforcements,” Tony says, and extends his arm with a flourish. In hand is a bottle of whisky.

“What are you talking about?” Bruce asks, already turning to look back at his book. At this point, they both know Bruce will fold, but this courtship is part of the process.

“Fun, Bruce,” Tony says, kneeling down beside him so he can rest his chin on the desk and look up at Bruce imploringly. “Have you heard of it?”

“Sounds dangerous,” Bruce says, frowning.

Tony tuts. “I know you like it,” he says, and pushes Bruce’s hip. “Besides. You’ve been brooding.”

“I have _not_ ,” Bruce snaps, affronted.

Tony rolls his eyes, pushes the bottle against Bruce’s book. “It’s the weekend and you’re broody and I’m _bored_ , let’s get drunk,” he says, pouting.

“Go lift some weights then,” Bruce says, pushing the bottle away. So maybe he’s afraid to get drunk around Tony, or to get drunk at all. Before—before, he’d had a sip of wine on New Year’s, with his parents. But he’s never trusted anyone enough to try more of it, and it would be mortifying to get drunk and have Alfred pick up after him. It’s with this train of thought that Bruce realizes that he may have finally found someone he trusts.

Now it’s a question of if he trusts himself around him.

“No,” Tony whines, drawing out the vowel. “I wanna get drunk with you.”

“Why?” Bruce asks, and it comes out sharper than he intended.

Tony shrinks away from him.

“Fine,” Tony says, standing.

“No, Tony,” Bruce says, his resolve crumbling immediately as he reaches over and catches Tony’s wrist. “Okay, come on.” He doesn’t want to dwell on the strange power Tony has over him. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen, when they graduate, when he finally goes down the path he promised himself after all this.

Instead, he focuses on Tony’s wrist in his hand.

Tony turns his wrist, takes Bruce’s hand in his. “You’re too easy,” he says, sitting back on Bruce’s bed, a triumphant grin on his face.

Bruce doesn’t say, _only for you_.

Tony opens the bottle and Bruce reaches over to his bedside table and hands him an empty glass.

“No glasses,” Tony says, taking a swig. “We drink like men.”

“I regret this already,” Bruce murmurs, but sets the glass aside before he takes the bottle from Tony.

“Regret is for future you,” Tony says.

Bruce shakes his head and takes a pull. The whisky tastes the way it smells, and it burns down his throat. It makes his stomach feel warm.

Again, the fear bubbles up inside him. He worries about what he’ll do when he’s drunk. He worries about what Tony will do, too.

“Stop thinking,” Tony says. He takes the bottle in one hand and takes a sip. Then he stands, takes a step towards Bruce. He takes Bruce’s chin in his hand again and tilts Bruce’s chin up. “Keep drinking.”

Bruce parts his lips open, entranced by the sight of Tony. His cheeks are already a little pink. Bruce wonders how he looks, like this, mouth open and waiting. He looks up at Tony, meets his eyes.

Tony lets out a shaky breath before he tips some whisky into Bruce’s mouth, murmuring an apology as some of it spills down Bruce’s chin. He wipes it off with his thumb, and Bruce licks his lips. He blinks when he sees Tony follow the movement.

Tony steps away, sits back on Bruce’s bed.

Bruce observes him for a moment, puzzling out that look on Tony’s face, then decides to sit beside Tony.

They pass the bottle between them in silence for a while, and then Tony starts talking about the wall he’s hit while building.

Bruce listens and half-heartedly tries to offer solutions. He knows that if he gets it right, Tony’ll be out of his room and building again, and he wants Tony to stay. It’s a funny thing to admit to himself.

“What were you reading?” Tony asks, apparently giving up on finding a solution.

“A book,” Bruce slurs, and realizes with a start that he’s there. He’s tipsy. This is what it must be. “I think,” he adds, blinking. “I think I’m drunk.”

Tony bursts out laughing. “Oh sweetheart,” he says. “I think you’re fucking adorable.”

Bruce can’t say when or why they stopped drinking, but he wakes up with his face pressed against Tony’s hair.

“Tony,” he rasps out, because there’s a bottle of water across the room but he can’t move.

“Stop shouting,” Tony says, burrowing even closer against Bruce’s chest. “Sleep time.”

Bruce makes a sad, pitiful sound. His head is pounding. He wants to die. Nothing, not even Tony in his arms, makes him feel better. (He really doesn’t want to focus on the last thought. He can’t.)

This makes Tony sigh, roll over, and feel around the side of the bed. He makes a pained sound as he lifts Bruce’s Hydroflask.

“Go drown in it,” he says darkly, handing it over to Bruce before he grabs the pillow from under them and uses it to cover his head.

* * *

They’re seventeen when Tony finally works up the nerve to ask him: “do you want to come over for the holidays?”

Bruce has known for a while now that Tony’s wanted to. He’s really gotten much better at reading people, which is why he deigned to come in the first place. He’s noticed the way Tony’s tried to start a conversation about it, especially when the holidays come up in class.

“Sure,” Bruce answers, smiling. “Your parents won’t mind?”

Tony snorts. “As long as you won’t mind them,” he mutters. “Anyway, it’ll be fun! Christmas in New York!”

Bruce rolls his eyes fondly. “Cold and full of tourists,” he says.

“Better than dark and depressing!”

“How _dare_ you,” Bruce gasps, mock-offended.

Tony laughs. “Will Alfred be okay?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have a ball. Probably have too much eggnog with Leslie.”

Tony nods, as if he’s content with this outcome. “I can’t wait,” he says, smiling.

“To spend even more time with me?” Bruce teases. He’s noticed too, now that he’s a bit older, that he might not be alone in how he feels. He’s rewarded immediately by Tony sputtering.

“Well away from all this, which makes it different,” Tony says defensively.

Bruce laughs. “I’m kidding,” he says, and doesn’t hesitate when he rests his hand on Tony’s arm and squeezes it quickly.

Tony smiles, looking a little shy. It’s these little tells that have cemented his theory. For now, he’s puzzling out why Tony hasn’t done anything about it; he’s pretty sure he’s telegraphed his desire just as loudly. He might as well have printed it out and decorated his room with signs that read: _Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me._

The Stark Mansion on Fifth Avenue is, in a word, grandiose. Bruce doesn’t wrinkle his nose at it, but it’s a close thing. There are too many decorations in the foyer alone, and as Bruce surveys it all, he wonders who their interior designer is.

“I know,” Tony says, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to their butler. Bruce takes off his own coat. “This is Jarvis, by the way.”

“Good afternoon,” Tony’s butler says.

Bruce laughs. “I see what you mean, now,” he says.

“Huh?” Tony asks. Then, “Oh. About them all being British.”

Bruce smiles, nods at Jarvis, and follows as Jarvis leads them inside.

“You remember that? That was what, four years ago?” Tony asks, catching up to them.

“Yeah, when we first met,” Bruce says. They have a _Picasso_. Has no one told them that he’s fallen out of favor?

Tony follows Bruce’s gaze. “I tried to tell them,” Tony groans. “Anyway, that’s sweet of you,” he adds.

Bruce almost stops in his tracks. Tony’s always had a knack for that, throwing such meaningful things around like it was nothing. It’s something he’s been trying to learn.

“I try,” Bruce replies, and winks at Tony.

Tony looks away, a slight blush on his cheeks.

Bruce feels triumphant.

“This is your room, sir,” Jarvis says, opening a door and setting Bruce’s bags down. “Please let us know if you’d like anything and we can pick it up for you.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says.

“My room’s down the hall,” Tony says. “Come on, I’ll show you before I introduce you to mom and dad.”

Dinner is a strange affair.

“Tony has said so much about you,” Maria says. She’s a beautiful woman, and the way she’s coiffed her hair reminds Bruce of his mother.

“Oh, good things, I hope,” Bruce says, smiling.

“Of course, he says you’ve kept him on the straight and narrow,” Maria says.

Tony grins at him, pleased by the exchange.

“Because he seems incapable of doing it himself,” Howard says, and wipes the smile off Tony’s face.

“Not at all, Mr. Stark,” Bruce says, and he’s not really thinking about _why_ he’s doing this on his first dinner with them, but he also just can’t abide by this kind of talk. It’s not right. “Tony’s been helping me with math, and after that time a few years ago, I think we’ve both matured significantly.”

Tony stares at Bruce for a second before he shoves a heapful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“How are your parents,” Howard says gruffly, doing a poor job of changing the topic. It’s likely because Maria was glaring at him.

“Oh dad,” Tony says through a mouthful of food.

“ _Howard_ ,” Maria hisses.

“It’s fine,” Bruce says with false cheer. Tony turns to Bruce, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, because at this point he knows what comes next. “They’re dead,” Bruce adds, really hammering it in, and also because he knows this is the kind of behavior that has Tony in stitches.

Tony chokes on his food.

Howard looks at Bruce and arches his eyebrow. “Ah, yes. Wayne,” he says. “Condolences.”

Bruce wants to punch him in the face. But then again, it’s not as if Tony didn’t warn him.

“Dessert?” Maria says brightly, clapping her hands together. “Jarvis makes a fantastic pavlova.”

“Sounds lovely,” Bruce says, and Tony finally catches his breath enough to kick Bruce under the table.

* * *

The next two weeks in New York pass fairly quickly. On his first official day in New York, Bruce had breakfast alone while Tony slept in. Jarvis made him pancakes.

“It’s ten,” Tony said accusingly, leaning against the doorframe.

“It’s _late_ ,” Bruce corrected him.

“I concur,” Jarvis said as he handed Tony a cup of coffee.

“Traitor.” Tony said, but perked up after his first sip. “So, want to go anywhere in particular?” Tony took another sip and sat down beside Bruce. He picked up a slice of Bruce’s pancake with his fingers.

“Or do you trust me?” He asked while chewing. He punctuated his question by licking the syrup off his fingers.

Bruce stared.

First of all, Tony had pulled it off again, gone to the heart of the matter with casual disregard. And his mouth. Good lord, his _tongue_.

Bruce cleared his throat and drank some orange juice.

“I trust you,” he said, voice still a little raspy. He tried to smile, as if the phrase wasn’t laden with baggage for him.

“I know,” Tony said, smiling. He leaned over and parted his lips.

Bruce glanced around, and once sure that they weren’t in Jarvis’ line of sight—he still hadn’t ascertained what their relationship was like, if they were as close as Bruce was to Alfred—he fed Tony a bit of the pancake.

“So I’m thinking, skating, hot chocolate, Central Park.” Tony said, grinning.

Bruce wrinkled his nose. “Sounds touristy.”

“What would you describe yourself as?” Tony asked, resting his chin on his hand.

“Not a tourist,” Bruce groused.

“But are you not visiting this place for pleasure?” Tony asked. “That’s the Cambridge definition.”

Bruce sighed. “To go to Central Park during winter does not sound pleasurable.”

“I thought you said you _trusted me_ ,” Tony pouted.

So they ended up going to Central Park. Bruce would choose death rather than ever admit he enjoyed it. He should’ve known better—frowning was impossible when he was spending time with Tony.

* * *

Bruce is wearing the sweater Tony bought him. It’s comfortable, cable-knit and thick. They have a few days left before they have to head back to school, and Tony’s chosen mourning activity is imbibing hard liquor.

They have glasses, now, at least.

Bruce is trying not to think about how this is his last _normal_ Christmas. Not that any Christmas since his parents have died have been normal—at home it was usually an austere affair, an exchange of gifts and some roast belly and cake. Bruce has never felt like celebrating. He knows, too, that when he’s done training—when he’s achieved his goals, he can never have anything like this. He won’t.

“Broody,” Tony says, as he tops up Bruce’s drink.

“Not,” Bruce says just as quickly. He continues to stare into the fire crackling merrily in front of them. He’s a little drunk, and everyone in the household has retired.

Tony’s put on a record, and he sways a little to the music as he drinks.

Bruce knows he’s trying to get his attention, so he blinks himself out of his thoughts.

“Thank you for having me,” he says, and means it more than Tony could possibly ever know.

Tony smiles, easy and loose only in the way that drunkenness can make it. “You’re welcome any time.”

Bruce grins, shakes his head.

“What?” Tony asks, sauntering over to Bruce and sitting down. They’re close enough that their thighs are flush against each other.

Bruce wonders if Tony’s done it on purpose. (Very likely.)

“Nothing,” Bruce says.

“Liar,” Tony murmurs. He leans close, rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder, and sips from his glass. “What’s on your mind?”

Bruce can’t have this—can’t have anyone that reads him as well as Tony around, if he plans on doing what he needs to. But it’s not like he ever expected to meet Tony, or get close to him. It’s frightening, how much of a mistake this all is.

“Bruce,” Tony whispers. “Tell me.”

Bruce downs his drink.

“You’re trouble, Tony Stark,” he says. He tries to keep his tone light, but he feels Tony flinch, so it means he failed at his attempt.

Tony takes a deep breath and relaxes against him.

“Not like that’s news to you,” he says.

“No,” Bruce agrees. “Suppose not.” He turns and looks at Tony, fondness swelling inside him so quickly it might burst out of him.

Tony turns to look up at him.

“Could be a bit more trouble for you,” he offers. His cheeks are flushed from the drink, and the firelight illuminates half his face, dancing and flickering and making him look impossibly beautiful.

Bruce knows he should turn away, should stand up and head to bed, shouldn’t _say_ anything. But he’s seventeen years old and he’s never had anything of his own. So maybe this is it, his chance, even if he knows too that he’ll be the one to take it away from himself.

“Yeah?” Bruce asks, shifting a little to cup Tony’s cheek in his hand.

Tony turns his head, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzles into Bruce’s touch.

“A kiss, maybe,” he whispers.

Bruce lets out a shaky breath. “Sounds about right,” he says, and thumbs Tony’s cheek to get his attention. He smiles when Tony opens his eyes, and pulls him close to kiss him.

Bruce has never kissed anyone before, and Tony seems to sense that. He leans closer, slides his hand into Bruce’s hair, angling his head properly. Bruce lets himself be led, his mouth parting open without thought when Tony swipes his tongue against his bottom lip.

Kissing Tony feels electric, and in the back of his mind, through the haze of alcohol and desire, he wonders how having Tony’s mouth pressed against his feels so good, why Tony’s tongue sliding against his makes his pulse jump.

Tony pulls away with a gasp, then raps his knuckles against Bruce’s head.

“I felt you thinking,” he scolds.

Bruce frowns at the loss, and at the accusation. “Stop me from thinking then,” he snaps.

Tony seems to that as a challenge. He grabs Bruce by the collar of his sweater and kisses him fiercely, and Bruce gets lost in it. He lets Tony push him down onto the couch, lets Tony’s hand slip under his shirt, fingertips cold and calloused as they map the planes of Bruce’s chest. Bruce tangles his hand in Tony’s hair, then down Tony’s back, pulling him close. He needs Tony as close as possible, wants to melt into him, wants to consume, or be consumed.

Bruce pulls away and tries to catch his breath. “Tony,” he says.

“Yes,” Tony answers, because he knows Bruce, knows what he needs, and it’s too exhilarating to be known for it to be frightening.

They stumble out of the living room, pausing every few moments to pull each other close and kiss again; first against the bookshelf, then against the bannister of the stairs, then against the wall, by the painting Bruce hates—then they’re in Bruce’s room and it’s like a switch is flicked.

“God,” Tony groans, kissing Bruce again and pushing him towards the bed. They fall into a messy pile of limbs but Bruce can’t be bothered to right himself, instead choosing to slide along to whatever makes sense as Tony writhes on top of him, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.

“I’ve wanted—” Tony breathes out, and then he moves and kisses Bruce’s neck.

“Oh, god,” Bruce moans, because he didn’t know that you could _do that_. He drags Tony back up and kisses him again, and he’ll never get enough of this, he can’t.

The phrase hits him like a ton of bricks. He can’t.

“Tony,” Bruce says, gently holding Tony away.

Tony blinks. He looks gorgeous and mussed up, and Bruce looks away because he knows he can’t say what he needs to say when Tony looks like that.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks.

“Let’s… let’s not do that,” Bruce says, because _he can’t_ and _he shouldn’t_ , and those two phrases keep flashing in his brain like a sick mantra.

“Okay,” Tony says, sounding confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Bruce says, cupping Tony’s cheek. “Of course not.”

Tony takes a deep breath, and it looks like he’s getting ready for a blow.

Bruce knows he needs to learn to be heartless. But not now.

“Tony,” Bruce says, sitting up and wrapping his arms around him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Tony whispers, digging his face into Bruce’s neck.

“I don’t think I can do that yet,” Bruce lies. At least in that aspect, he’s got it covered.

Tony nods. “I wasn’t saying we should,” he says, his breath hot against Bruce’s chest.

“I know. But I wanted to say so, too.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Bruce whispers, and turns to kiss Tony’s cheek. “But could we just lie down together?”

“Yeah,” Tony says.

Bruce gently lifts Tony’s head and kisses him chastely.

They shift around a little until they’re lying down, facing each other.

“We’re okay, right?” Tony asks, looking at Bruce’s chest.

“More than okay,” Bruce says. He takes Tony’s chin in his hands and tilts his head up. “I’m really glad we kissed,” he says, smiling at Tony.

“That’s my move,” Tony says, looking up at Bruce and then away.

“Hm?”

“The hand on chin thing,” Tony says, and looking up at Bruce and frowning.

“I knew it!” Bruce says, feeling triumphant. “I knew you were doing that on purpose.”

Tony's lip quirk into a small smile, looking a little embarrassed. “Like you said. Trouble,” he murmurs.

Bruce huffs out a laugh.

“Just the trouble I was looking for,” he says, before pulling Tony close and kissing him.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://firebrands.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/firebrandss)!


End file.
